shadows will scream (that i'm alone)
by The Cocky Undead
Summary: Jesse had been free for 136 days when he saw Mr. White again.


Jesse had been free for 136 days when he saw Mr. White again.

Jesse's feet froze to the wooden floor at the sight of Walter White standing in his bedroom. His hands tightened around the mug of cocoa, palms burning through the ceramic, but he hardly noticed because his old partner wasn't supposed to be here. He thought he had left all of _that_ behind when he came to Alaska.

Walter was staring out one of the windows, hands clasped behind his back, but Jesse didn't know what he was looking at; there wasn't much to see with the snow coming down like it was.

Jesse roughly shook his head, as if he could erase the image of his old chemistry teacher away. He had heard the news on the radio back in New Mexico, he had seen the blood blossoming on Walt's green shirt in Uncle Jack's compound. He _knew_ Walt was dead.

He opened his mouth, but his words got stuck halfway up his throat, like he was afraid, and that was enough to blow on the embers of anger that always seemed to spark when Walter was around. He swallowed and tried again.

"What are you doing here?" Jesse's voice was low, gravely from disuse; the snow had kept him home from work and he hadn't seen another living thing for days.

Walt's back stiffened at Jesse's voice, and he carefully turned on his heel to face him.

Jesse stared at Walt and his anger disappeared. He swallowed around the lump that had grown in his throat. The last time he had seen the older man it had been what Jesse thought would be the last time, but here he was, standing in the dimly lit room as if no time had passed since that night.

Walt looked the same. His brown hair was shaggy and his beard had spots of grey in it. He face was lined with age of a life well-lived…maybe not _well-lived_ but at least lived. His glasses, dark and square, were secure over his intelligent eyes. He seemed lighter, like whatever self-imposed weight he had had on his shoulders was gone, but Jesse could see surprise, confusion, and relief all at war on Walt's face; he clearly hadn't expected Jesse to say anything. Maybe he shouldn't have. Maybe he should've just kept his mouth shut.

"Jesse?" Walt's voice sounded like it was underwater, and he frowned, tapping a hand to his ear. "Jesse?" he tried again as he took a step closer. This time it was clearer, and Walt's frown deepened, but it wasn't an angry look; it was a look that meant Walt was working through a problem. It was a look that Jesse was familiar with, and thought he would never have to see again.

Walt shifted even closer, shoes noiseless on the wooden floor, and his shape sharpened.

"Stay back," Jesse said, raising a hand to ward off his old partner. "Don't come any closer." He didn't want this. He didn't want Walt to be here, figuring shit out, like always.

Walt's frown deepened. "Jesse?"

The fear that had been steadily rising in Jesse's chest abruptly stopped and the spark of anger that had died, started to burn again. This was the man who had taken Jesse's hand and led him to the gates of Hell. This was the man who had taken everything from him without a second thought, just so that he could win the game. This was the fucking guy who deserved to be in Hell, not here standing in Jesse's bedroom with nothing to say but his name.

"That's all you have to say?" Jesse snapped. "You came all this way, and all you can say is my name? No 'sorry, Jesse, for sending Psycho Todd and his uncle to kill you?' No, 'sorry, for killing everyone you ever cared about?' Mike, Andrea, _Jane_—," Jesse bit off the rest of his words, throat burning with unshed tears. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about them. He swallowed and focused back on Walt, who was standing frozen in the middle of the room, eyes wide and pinned on Jesse.

Jesse took an uneven breath, letting it fill his lungs before letting it whistle out his nose. He waved a hand. "Get lost, bitch."

Walt blinked, and seemingly disregarded everything that Jesse had just said as his lips pulled back into a fond smile.

"Why are _you_ smiling?" Jesse demanded, barring his teeth. His anger was growing, bright and fast, but he knew it wouldn't do anything. It wouldn't matter in the end. It was a useless emotion that never achieved anything worthwhile, especially not when it came to the thing standing in front of him.

"I've just…" Walt started, and then shook his head. "How can you see me?" He took another step closer, slow and careful, as if he expected Jesse to bolt. "No one else can. I was…I was very alone for a very long time." Walt's throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Good," Jesse snapped, chin jutting out.

Walt's mouth pinched, anger flashing across his face, but then he focused, eyes sharp. "You're alone too."

"Not anymore. Prick," Jesse said, ignoring the sting of Walt's words. "Thanks to you. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Walt didn't answer. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest as he studied Jesse, the lines on his face deepening.

Jesse wanted to run, to leave Walt alone again, but what would be the point? Where would he go? This was his home now, his last chance, there was nothing else.

A shudder worked its way through him at the thought of Walt taking _this_ away from him too.

No. What he needed to do was face this shit head on, deal with it, and move on. That was the only way to make him go away.

"You're taking this awfully calmly," Walt finally said, breaking the silence.

"This?" Jesse wasn't going to make it easy for Walt.

"This," Walt repeated, gesturing wildly. Jesse' followed his movements with wide and exaggerated eyes. "This whole thing."

Jesse pressed his lips closed, shifting back a step so that he could lean against the doorframe in a show of forced nonchalance. He offered Walt a shrug and a confused frown.

Walt briefly closed his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. "You know I'm dead—"

"You're dead?" Jesse interrupted. "No way."

"Jesse. Please." Annoyance flared in Walt's eyes, sharpening them and sending shivers down Jesse's spine; even in death, it seemed that Walt had a low tolerance for Jesse's bullshit. "We both know that I'm dead, but what I don't understand is how you can see me. My family couldn't, my partners at Grey Matter couldn't. No one could…no one but you."

Jesse didn't say anything, watching as Walt's eyes grew distant as he worked through the problem. Despite everything, he couldn't help but admire Walt for his intelligence, even if it had been a helping hand to both their downfalls.

Walt's eyes flicked back to Jesse after a lengthy pause. "How long have you been able to see dead people?"

.

.

Jesse was pretty sure that he was tripping, but he hadn't taken anything since last night. And anyway, the whole point of using again was so that he wouldn't have to see Gale anymore.

And yet, there he was, hovering at Mr. White's elbow.

They were in the middle of cooking a new batch of blue for Fring, and it had been going smoothly, until now.

Jesse briefly wondered how long Gale had been down here in the lab with them, but he pushed that aside; it didn't matter how long the dead guy had been here, the important part was the fact that a _dead man_ was standing next to Mr. White, eyes glued to the cooking process, drinking it in, as if he couldn't get enough of it. He didn't seem to realize that Jesse had frozen in place and was staring at him with wide eyes behind the plastic of his mask.

Jesse's breath was coming in short gasps, harsh against the mask's filter. He was getting light headed, and the room was starting to spin unsteadily under his feet. He could feel bile rising up his throat, and the thought that he might puke into his mask was enough to unfreeze him and send him tumbling towards their small break room; if he puked in the lab during a cook, Mr. White would literally have an aneurysm and then Jesse would have another death staining his hands.

His shoes squeaked against the red floor and his arms windmilled as he fought for balance as he half-fell, half-ran to the break room.

"Jesse?" Mr. White's voice rang out behind him, muffled, but laced with genuine concern.

Jesse spent all of two seconds trying to wrap his head around the idea that Mr. White could still show concern for him before he skidded into the break room. He ripped his mask off, tossing it to the side and ignoring the sting of the rubber straps hitting his face.

He twisted around, looking for a sink, a garbage—anything he could use. His eyes landed on a round garbage can sitting by the couch, and that was good enough for Jesse.

He staggered towards it and fell heavily to his knees, reaching for the can and gripping it tightly with gloved hands before heaving the contents of his stomach out.

His eyes stung and his throat burned, and it didn't seem to matter that he only had a few slices of pizza and not much else in his stomach; he kept retching until only an acidic bile came up.

How was this happening? How was Gale, a man he had shot dead only days ago, standing in their lab?

"Jesse?" A cool hand pressed itself against the back of Jesse's neck, sending shivers rippling down him.

Jesse's hands were clenched around the rim of the garbage can, so tight he couldn't feel his fingers anymore. His arms were trembling and it took him a moment to realize that the strange wheezing sound was coming from him. He immediately tried to muffle the noise, snapping his mouth shut, but it didn't do much good.

"Are you sick?" Mr. White asked, hand still pressed against Jesse. "Sit down. Here." Mr. White hunched down, rubber boots squeaking at the movement, and carefully eased Jesse's fingers off the can.

Suddenly numb, Jesse loosened his grip and allowed himself to be guided to the couch. He fell onto it in a heap of shaking limbs.

The couch dipped at his side as Mr. White gingerly sat down next to him, but Jesse didn't dare turn his head to look; he didn't know where Gale had gone, but he was sure that Gale had probably followed Mr. White into the break room and was watching the whole thing.

A roaring filled his ears as panic started to rise; Gale couldn't know that Jesse had seen him. If he knew, what would he do to Jesse, the guy who had taken his life? Jesse knew what _he_ would do, if he was in Gale's place.

"Jesse?" Mr. White said, breaking through the cold fear that was gripping Jesse. "Do you need to go home? I can finish the cook without you. We're almost done anyway."

Jesse opened his mouth, licking his lips. "Uh, yeah, Mr. White. I don't feel so good." He carefully started to peel his gloves off, letting them drop to the floor. He stared at his pale hands, curling them into tight fists. "I think I might be coming down with somethin'."

"Hmm," Mr. White hummed and then shifted towards Jesse, reaching out with a hand to press against Jesse's forehead.

Jesse flinched at the contact, turning wide eyes to his partner, and then flinching harder when he saw the vague shape of Gale standing in the doorway.

"I'm just checking your temperature," Mr. White said soothingly.

Jesse mutely nodded, eyes flicking wildly around, trying to look anywhere but at Gale. He finally settled on Mr. White's concerned face.

"You feel pretty clammy," Mr. White said, removing his hand. Jesse immediately missed the contact. "You should go home. I'll finish up here, and then I'll swing by and check up on you. I'll be soup or something."

A grateful swell of relief rocked Jesse, but then he remembered the never ending party he had going on back at his house, and shame overtook the relief; he didn't want Mr. White to see that.

"Naw, it's alright," Jesse said. "I'll be okay."

Mr. White frowned a little, eyeing him.

Jesse abruptly wanted him to argue, wanted him to say that he was coming anyway, that he was going to make sure Jesse was okay. He didn't care that his house was a mess—he _needed_ Mr. White.

His nails dug into his palm, and his breath stilled in his lungs as he waited for Mr. White to say something.

Finally, Mr. White nodded, concern beginning to ease off his face. "Alright. If that's what you want." Disappointment flared in Jesse's chest. "Rest up and I'll see you for the next cook."

.

.

"You saw Gale?"

Jesse had moved the conversation out of his bedroom and into the living room, sitting in his chair, next to the crackling fireplace. He hadn't offered Walt anywhere to sit, not sure that it wouldn't have worked for him anyway.

Walt hovered uncomfortably on the circle rug a few feet away from Jesse. He had been quiet for Jesse's story, listening with a small frown on his face.

"Yeah," Jesse said with a nod. "I saw him."

"How many times?"

Jesse shrugged. "Just that once."

"And that was the first time?" Walt pressed. "You never saw anything like that before?" He had a look on his face, like he thought Jesse wasn't telling him the full truth.

"Um, no," Jesse said, eyes narrowing. "I think I would have noticed if, like, a ghost or some shit had popped up before then."

Walt scoffed. "Well, you were—," he cut himself off abruptly, guilt flickering across his face.

Jesse glared and leaned forward in his chair. "I was what? High all the time? Just a stupid junkie that probably wouldn't have been able to tell if what I was seeing was real or not? Yeah, I thought about that too."

"Well—," Walt started, but Jesse knew what he was going to say. He would stubbornly stand by his statement and then offer platitudes without giving any ground. It was what Walt did; how he operated when dealing with Jesse Pinkman.

"Save it," Jesse said with a rough shake of his head.

The words died in Walt's mouth and he swallowed them down with a small frown.

Jesse looked away from Walt, turning his gaze to the glowing fireplace. It had taken him a little bit to learn how to start fires. It was something that he figured would be easy; it always was in the movies, but growing up his parents had never had bonfires in the back yard or had been camping, so he had never really learned.

He hadn't really learned a lot of things.

"Why do you think this is happening?" Walt said, breaking the silence.

Jesse blinked and looked back to Walt. "Why what is happening?"

Walt did that eye roll thing that he always did when Jesse was being particularly dumb.

"I dunno," Jesse said, fighting down the flash of anger that rose in his chest. The anger hadn't disappeared, but he knew that this whole thing with his old partner wouldn't end until Walt got what he wanted, just like always, and while yelling and screaming might make him feel better, it wasn't going to make Walt leave sooner.

"Well, you had to have thought about it before," Walt said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You don't just suddenly start seeing…things and not think about _why_ that is."

Jesse shrugged. "Yeah, I thought about it."

"And?"

"And...this is just the way it is now."

.

.

Something had his face gripped between two cold hands and was shaking him so hard that Jesse could feel his teeth rattling.

His eyes flew open and his arms shot out in an attempt to knock whatever it was off him.

His hands didn't hit anything solid, but he did hit _something_.

"Shit—fuck," Jesse bit out. His arms were freezing cold, like he had just dunked them into a bucket of icy water. He pulled them back, curling them up to his chest, as he shoved himself out of his covers and up to his headboard.

He tried to make himself small as his eyes flicked wildly around his dark room, looking for what had woken up him.

It didn't take him long to find the source.

Mike was standing over him, arms crossed over his chest with his typical look of annoyance dancing on his face.

"Mike?" Jesse asked hoarsely, squinting up at the older man as he willed his heart to slow its wild beating. "What are you doing here? I thought you were leaving?" He paused and frowned. "Yo, why are you in my house?"

Mike's eyebrows rose slowly and he blinked slowly at Jesse.

Jesse's frown deepened and he rubbed at his eyes, trying to wipe the lingering tiredness away and focus on what was happening. Whatever it was, it didn't look like it was urgent; Jesse figured that if danger was looming than he would be having a very different discussion with Mike, one that probably involved Mike dragging him to his car with absolutely no time for chit chat.

"Mr. White said that everything went okay, that he got you your stuff and you left," Jesse said cautiously. A sick feeling was starting to twist in his gut, and it only worsened at the dark look that passed over Mike's face.

"Mike?" Jesse said quietly. "What's going on?"

Mike's shoulders rose and fell and he cocked his head to the side, the anger on his face disappeared, overtaken by sadness. It was a look that he had given Jesse more and more, like he knew something Jesse didn't, like he knew that this empire they had built was going to come crumbling down around them, like he knew something about Mr. White that Jesse didn't.

It suddenly occurred to Jesse that Mike wasn't completely solid.

Jesse's throat tightened and he could feel tears prickling in his eyes. "Aw, no. No, no, Mike. _Not you too_!" His voice was rising as his panic grew and bubbled over; he hadn't seen any dead people in a while. Not since he thought he had seen Gus Fring standing near Mr. White during one of their cooks, and none of the dead people had ever tried to interact with Jesse before, but he supposed that none of them had been Mike.

Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. _Mike_.

Hot tears were rolling freely down his cheeks and Jesse couldn't stop the sob that worked its way out of his mouth. He clamped a hand against his lips, trying to muffle it.

He pressed his other hand to his mouth too, trying to smother the sobs that were coming quickly now. He pulled his legs up to his chest, shoving his forehead against his knees so that he wouldn't have to look at the dead man standing in his room any longer.

He knew that Mike deserved to been seen, and that out of everybody, Jesse could actually give that to him. Because for some stupid fucking reason, Jesse could see what no one else could.

But he was a coward, always had been and always would be, and he couldn't face Mike, not when he knew that he could have saved him. He could have insisted that he be the one to give Mike his go-bag and not Mr. White. He could have been there to help Mike. He _should_ have been there.

Fuck—Mr. White.

Did he know that Mike was dead? Who could have killed him? Did this killer know about Mr. White's operation? Were they all fucked?

Jesse knew that he was starting to hyperventilate, but he couldn't stop it. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion; there just wasn't anything to be done about it other than to let it happen.

Sobs were racking his body and his hands over his mouth weren't stopping the noise of his cries. His hot tears were seeping into the fabric of his pajama pants from where his face was pressed against his knees, and his whole body was shaking uncontrollably.

How many more people did he have to lose before the end?

A cold hand touched Jesse's shoulder and he shivered violently, but it did the trick. He abruptly stopped crying, like turning a faucet off, and leaned into the cold touch, as much as he was able to.

His face felt puffy and hot when he finally lifted his head from his knees to face Mike again. He scrubbed his hands against his face, feeling the rough stubble on his cheeks against his palms, as he wiped away the remains of his useless tears.

"What happened?" Jesse croaked, voice scrapping against his throat. "How'd…how'd…you know?" He swallowed as his eyes traveled up and down Mike's not quite solid form.

Mike carefully withdrew his hand, and Jesse wished that he hadn't, feeling pathetic that he wanted comfort from a dead man. If anything _he_ should be the one offering Mike sympathy; after all he was the dead guy in this scenario.

Mike blinked at him and then tapped his throat.

"Oh." Jesse felt stupid. None of them had ever been able to talk before; he didn't know why he thought Mike would. He swallowed and took a breath. "Someone killed you?"

Mike grimly nodded.

"Um, okay. Declan or—?"

Mike roughly shook his head, cutting off the rest of Jesse's words.

"Someone I know?"

A nod.

"Todd?" A bright anger flared under Jesse's ribs at the thought of the dead eyed psycho.

Mike heaved a soundless sigh and shook his head.

Jesse's mouth worked. "I don't know who you're talking about," he said helplessly. He twisted his hands together. "I just saw Mr. White. He didn't say anything about giving you your go-bag. He would have told me if something had gone wrong…" Jesse trailed off, eyes unfocused as thoughts of Mr. White circled in his mind. He didn't have to look at Mike to know the truth.

.

.

"You knew?" Walt asked incredulously.

Jesse focused on him again. "Yeah, I knew."

"But—"

"I knew after you gave me my money back the first time."

Walt's mouth twisted. "So, you knew when I came the second time? After Saul called me? Why didn't you say something?"

Jesse snorted. "I did." _I think he's dead, and I think you know that. _

He watched as Walt thought back to that moment in Aunt Ginny's house when they sat on the couch together with the blood money sitting between them.

"It wasn't just the…the guilt that was eating away at me," Jesse continued, standing up. Suddenly it was too much to just sit there, like it didn't matter, like Walt wasn't standing in his living room demanding explanations. "Drew Sharpe," he stumbled over the name, blinking rapidly. "Yeah, that fucked me up. But…it was knowing that you—killed Mike and you were lying to me about. I trusted you—" He bit off the rest of his words, twisting away from Walt to stare into the fire again. He clamped his hands onto the sides of his neck, lacing his fingers together. The feeling of his hands against his skin comforted him, as futile as it was.

"Jesse, I…"

"Don't," Jesse snapped and turned back around. "Don't say anything. You can't make it better. You never could." He bit the inside of his cheek, pain swelling the harder his pressed his teeth. "I used to think that you cared about me."

"I do."

Jesse laughed, the sound ripped out of him, harsh and too loud. "No, you don't."

Walt opened his mouth to argue, but Jesse didn't give him a chance. "What? Don't tell me you already forgot that you let those Nazi assholes take me? Where do you think I got these scars on my face?"

Walt's mouth snapped shut, and Jesse nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

.

.

"Uncle Jack," Todd's voice rang out above Jesse, slow and steady. Coming from anyone else, his voice would have been soothing, comforting, but instead it sent tremors rippling through Jesse's already shaking form.

His cuffed hands were gripping the photo of Andrea and Brock; the last thing he had left of Andrea, and probably Brock too. His hands were covered in dry blood from where he had beat his fists against the cement walls of his prison, and his knuckles were wrecked, maybe broken, but Jesse didn't care. He couldn't feel anything, anyway.

"Uncle Jack…he's talking to himself again."

"Boy," Jack's voice was faint, as if it was coming from a distance, "I don't give a shit. Just make sure he's locked up, good and tight, and remind him what'll happen if he tries anymore running."

The tarp above Jesse rattled as Todd shifted it and peered down through the opening he made.

Jesse could see his shadow on the floor of his prison, but he didn't look up. He didn't look at anything except the photo clutched in his hand. He didn't need it to remind him what he had lost or what would happen if he tried to run away.

"Jesse…?" Todd ventured. "You okay down there?"

A choked sob caught in Jesse's throat and he wondered if Todd really was as emotionally deficient as he acted. He must be. No one could pretend like that.

A feather light coldness touched Jesse's cheek and he finally lifted his head, but he didn't look at Todd.

Andrea was standing in front of him. Her dark hair was wild and loose. Her bathrobe was tightly cinched around her waist. Her hand was outstretched, hovering inches from his bruised and bloody cheek.

His lips trembled as he looked at her. She shouldn't be here. She wasn't supposed to be dead.

"I'm sorry," he whispered through numb lips.

Her eyes were soft, but she didn't speak; he hadn't expected her to, but it still stung knowing that he would never hear her voice again.

"What's that, Jesse?" Todd asked.

Jesse ignored him.

"I should never have—I shouldn't have gotten involved with you and Brock," Jesse said lowly. "I knew what I was doing when I started cooking with Mr. White. I knew how dangerous it was…but you didn't. You had no idea what you were getting into. I never gave you a choice." He paused, blinking away tears; he didn't deserve to cry, not in front of her. "I'm sorry."

"Jesse, you're going to need to speak up," Todd said. "I can't hear you."

Jesse's teeth clenched together and he tore his eyes away from Andrea to glare up at Todd. "Fuck off!" he bit out.

He could see Todd's pale eyes staring down at him through the bars. He blinked in response to Jesse's words.

"Now, Jesse," he said after a beat, "I'm just checking up on you. I've heard you talking and I wanted to make sure you're okay. But I can see that you just need a little more time." He paused. "I'll be back later with something for your hands."

Jesse glanced down at his hands, bloody and useless, and then back to Todd.

"Why would you do somethin' like that?" Todd asked a beat later. "You really hurt yourself."

_That was the point, asshole_, Jesse thought viciously. That and because he didn't want to see Andrea anymore, but she hadn't left his side all night.

"Whatever the reason, you can't be doing that. We need your hands working. Miss Lydia needs us to start cooking a batch as soon as we can, and you can't work without your hands."

Jesse chewed on the words he wanted to scream back at Todd, and looked back to Andrea. But she was gone.

His heart tightened and the breath in his lungs froze. She was gone and he probably wouldn't ever see her again.

"Anyway," Todd said, oblivious to Jesse's silent anguish. "I'll be back later."

There was a scuffle of feet and Todd disappeared, leaving Jesse alone again.

.

.

"She was the last one I'd seen, until you," Jesse said. He let his hands drop down to his sides, fingers curling in on themselves as he stared at Walt. "You're the first…the only one who's ever spoken to me."

Walt's face was impassive, unreadable, and Jesse wondered what Walt could possibly be thinking. This wasn't some problem that he could think his way out of; he couldn't repair this, no matter what he tried. He couldn't fix what was broken, and Jesse had been broken for far too long for anything to help.

Walt cleared his throat, the sound too loud in the small room. "Do you know why this started happening?"

Jesse shrugged. "I have some ideas."

Walt stared at him, waiting for Jesse to continue, but when he didn't, Walt sighed. "I think." Walt stopped, eyeing Jesse as if waiting for him to yell at him. "I think that when you killed Gale, something changed—"

"Something broke," Jesse interrupted harshly. "Not _changed_—it broke. Killing Gale _broke_ me." His lips pulled back over his teeth. "_You_ broke me."

Walt's lips pressed together, but, to Jesse's surprise, he didn't try to deny it. Jesse was waiting for the speech about personal responsibility and how Walt hadn't forced Jesse to do anything, that Jesse had always made his own choices. And, yeah, Jesse agreed with that to an extent, but he also knew how Walt worked, and looking back now, he could see all the times that Walt had pushed and prodded him into the direction he wanted; he had manipulated Jesse for so long without Jesse even realizing it.

But Walt didn't say anything. The lines in his face deepened and his mouth turned down, and his eyes…his eyes were dark with unspoken words, words that Jesse suddenly wanted—needed to hear.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Jesse demanded, striding forward and jabbing a finger at Walt. "Don't you—_don't you have_ _anything to say_?" He screamed the last part, surprising himself as the words tore out of his mouth.

Walt was only a foot away from him, but he didn't flinch away as Jesse shoved closer, only inches away now.

Jesse could feel a scream perched in his throat, begging to be let loose, and suddenly he didn't care that this whole thing was for Walt, he _needed_ this too. His mouth opened and he let out the scream. It was a wordless, endless scream that he couldn't stop now, even if he wanted to.

He could feel the cords on his neck standing out, and his nails biting into the meat of his palms, but he didn't care.

Walt hadn't moved and was just standing, so close to Jesse, watching him with sadness flashing in his eyes. Somehow that made it worse, or maybe better; Jesse couldn't tell anymore.

His throat suddenly gave out, and his scream tapered off, and he realized that he was crying. Tears were streaming down his face, fast and thick. His chest felt like it was clogged, and Jesse reached up to first press his hands against his chest, as if that would help, before scrubbing at his face, trying to stop the flow of tears.

"Jesse," Walt said quietly.

Jesse stared at him through a blurry haze of slowing tears.

"I'm sorry."

A sob worked its way up his throat and Jesse's chin dipped down to his chest. It wasn't the first time Walt had apologized, and sometimes, Jesse had even believed him when he said it, but this was the first time that Walt really, truly meant it; Jesse could finally hear the truth of it in Walt's voice.

A wave of cold washed over Jesse and he jerked his head up, staring as Walt gripped Jesse's face between his hands.

Walt waited a beat, but Jesse didn't jerk away as he slowly pulled him forward.

Jesse didn't think dead men could give hugs, but Walt, the bastard, managed it, despite not really having a body anymore.

Jesse didn't want to cry anymore, but he couldn't stop the new flood of tears that leaked out of his eyes as Walt's arms encircled him. Jesse was cold, but for the first time in months, he felt safe.

It was stupid and he knew it didn't make sense, but Walt had almost always given him a sense of security and belonging, and it was no different now, despite everything that had happened between them.

"I trusted you," Jesse mumbled into Walt's shoulder. His eyes were shut tight, as if closing them would block out the reality of what was happening. "We were—we were partners."

"I know," Walt said quietly. His chest rumbled against Jesse's, something that shouldn't be possible. "I'm sorry. For everything."

It didn't feel like it should be enough, not after what Walt had put him through, but Jesse felt his chest loosen, just a little.

"I…Mr. White," Jesse said, still clutching at his old partner like the world was crashing down around them. "I don't want to be alone."

He could feel Walt's form starting to fade; the dead man had gotten what he had come for, but Jesse suddenly wasn't ready for it to be over.

"You won't be," Walt said, voice going soft. "I know you won't be alone forever."

Jesse kept his eyes closed; he didn't want to see where Walt was going, he didn't want to see Walt leave.

"Jesse," Walt said, almost too soft to hear. "We were never just partners." He paused. "We were family."

And then he was gone.

.

.

When Jesse woke up, he was curled on the rug in front of his dead fire, shivering and clutching himself with both arms.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, trying to ignore the way his bones seemed to creak and protest the movement. He crossed his legs and rubbed his hands over his head, the short bristles of his hair poking into his skin.

Jesse sat for a moment longer, staring at nothing, and then stood up, crossing the room to look out his front window.

Outside, the world was covered in a blanket of fresh snow, and Jesse knew it would be hours before he could head into town, but he didn't care. He felt lighter and cleaner than he had in months. He felt like he could finally loosen the tight grip he had around his past and start to move forward, inch by inch.

He wouldn't let himself escape the horrors of what had happened to only live some kind of half-life now. Unlike, Gale and Mike and Gus and Walter White, Jesse was alive. It was time to start acting like it.

His eyes burned from staring at the sun reflecting off the white snow, and he rubbed at them, but didn't look away.

It had been 6 hours since Jesse had seen Mr. White for the last time, and he knew that his life was just beginning.

.

.

A/N: Walt and Jesse's complicated relationship is probably my favorite thing about the show and I wanted to explore that somehow. I'm not really sure what conclusion I came to about the two of them with this fic, or if I even wrote them and their relationship correctly, but whatever.

Also, I know that Jesse doesn't sound like he should; he's REALLY hard to write. Actually, everyone was hard to write.

EDIT: somehow my linebreaks disappeared. so i just went through and fixed that...stupid thing.


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